


Untitled

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fingerfucking, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt from tumblr. fingerfucking. pwp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

His hands curl and uncurl, threads of his wrists shifting, moving, beneath his skin when Dean holds him down; a hand on his stomach over his navel, splayed wide, feeling the thrum of heat like a heartbeat on each pad of his fingers.

Most of the time, the anticipation is enough; Dean nudges a blunt finger at him, not even dipping inside; pressing, damp with the sweat between Cas’ legs, around the pucker of him, drawing from Castiel a hitch of breath – a short, malformed gasp. They don’t talk. Not at this point.

Everything is hesitance, is waiting; is Castiel’s bated sighs from the head of the bed, his legs trembling. Dean works his finger in, shallow; not far, only the nail, the heat inside  _stifling_ already, Castiel’s body squeezing around him like a vice. The angel huffs; his eyes are already shut, his head tipped back against the pillows, because he  _knows_ this –  _loves_ this, Dean’s fingers inside him, asks for it like he will ask for nothing else. He grunts – the dry press of Dean’s finger isn’t enough, and Castiel, impatient and bossy in every aspect of his life, thumps his foot against the mattress; mutters, “ _Dean. Please.”_ Pleading as moodily as he possibly can, with a digit only slightly inside him, trailing circles just around the entrance, lazy.

Dean chuckles – he leans to kiss Castiel’s knee as he pulls his finger out to grab the lube from the bedside table – makes sure the angel is watching him pour it liberally onto his fingers, rubbing them together to get it warm. When he returns, Castiel’s hips are hitched up; he crawls up the bed to kiss Castiel on the mouth, expansive and just a  _little_ purposefully frustrating. The angel bites his lip. “Dean.” He says, again, pointedly, and Dean smiles at him; kisses his nose. Moves down the bed again.

He works the first in, slick, slowly; to one knuckle and then to the next, trailing it inside Castiel in slow, drawn out circles. He is knelt between Castiel’s knees; one hand on his leg, the other pushing the digit, slow, in and out, inside him. Each drag draws a noise from Castiel – a murmur like someone waking involuntarily from sleep; a noise with no teeth, no tongue, as Dean crooks his finger – knows very well what to do, now – and Castiel arches, just a little, off the bed. His breath goes shallow, hesitant; his dick starts to fill, warm and flushed, in front of Dean’s eyes.

He enjoys this almost as much as Cas does; adds another finger, slow, making Castiel whine his name on the crest of a breath. Works them in and out, fucking him languid with them, crooking them to find the bump inside him, to brush against it, to string from the angel a sharp, wanting  _howl._

“ _Cas.”_ Because that sound gets him, always; so uninhibited, so  _open,_ Castiel pushing his hands against the sheets, gathering handfuls of the covers in fists, pushing his body further onto Dean’s fingers, groaning when he pulls them back, moving with him as he works them (slowly, slowly). The noise underneath Castiel’s halting, shuddering breaths is obscene;  _wet. “_ Cas, tell me what you want.” He says, careful, achingly hard but paying it almost no mind, focused instead with how Castiel is coming apart; how his fingers look, buried inside him.

“Faster.” Castiel breathes, and Dean obeys, willingly; moves his hand, still carefully but quicker – takes his hand from Castiel’s knee to fist the angel’s cock, which is dribbling, wet, all over the trembling muscles of his stomach. He jacks him in time with the push of his hand and Castiel is lost to it – noises so loud he’ll wake the fucking dead, but at least Dean knows how to cope with that.

His breaths rise into sharp, aching noises, pulled taut from his throat is if forced out, groans that start with the beginning of Dean’s name and tail off into nothing, caught short on a gasp, on another breath, another stroke of Dean’s hand on his cock, Dean’s fingers inside him. It comes –  _he_ comes – with a sharp, unrestrained gasp, with Dean’s name trembling from his lips, twisting the sheets in his hands, spilling all over Dean’s fist, on his stomach, his muscles spasming around Dean’s fingers, drawing tight around him – and then loosening, slowly, as Dean pulls his fingers out, his fist still moving him through it, come dribbling over his hand even as Castiel gets heavier, heavier, more loosely sprawled against the bed.

His hands are warm and damp when he places them on Castiel’s hips, the angel’s flesh still trying to regain its composure, still shaking indefinably under his skin. He crawls up Castiel’s body, again, mindful of the mess.

“ _Cas.”_ The only word in his vocabulary, ever. “Cas.” He murmurs, and buries his face in the angel’s neck – his quick-beat pulse thrumming staccato against his cheek. His cock, untouched, softens between them, against Castiel’s stomach; he ignores it in favour of the moment. It’s enough. “ _Christ.”_

The angel laughs, tiredly. He lifts a weary, heavy hand to fist it in Dean’s hair. “Not quite.” He mumbles, already inches from sleep.

Dean snorts in response, mouth pressed to his skin. “No, I guess not.” 

Castiel’s voice mumbles his name – mumbles something stupid, like  _thankyou,_ for fuck’s sake – and then something else, something softer, something more important.

Dean mutters it back, with a laugh, with a breath. Contents himself with Castiel’s pulse against his skin; its ever-slowing metronome as he slips, heady, towards sleep. 


End file.
